


Shadows In The Mirage

by xerxesun



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV), Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Murder, Awkward Romance, Canon Compliant, Cute Encounters, Domestic Fluff, Doppelganger, Drama & Romance, Engagement, England (Country), Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, France (Country), Friends to Lovers, Friends to Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love/Hate, Murder, Partners to Lovers, Scotland, Screaming and Shouting, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, Unrequited Love, alternatively named i'm a softie who can't endure heartbreak and goes on making AUs when hearbroken, and of course some tears, another title could be that mary is a fucking badass and i'll die on that hill, engaged Mary/Francis, everyone loves mary but what's new in that, i mean what is a book where you haven't shed tears while writing it, medici domination, mentions of sexual abuse and assault, no beta we die like francis in the show, posh language, she's a bit stupid as well but she's hot so it makes up for it, some hardships in their way, the dates are messed up nothing lines up with reality, the happiness Mary and Francis deserved but the show didn't give it to them, the medicis are superior i just want you to know it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29937945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerxesun/pseuds/xerxesun
Summary: She has always been afraid of The Dark. She has spent the better part of her life running away from it, hiding in places she thought, it'd never reach her.Little does she know that it's always there—hiding and crippling its way, clawing on her dress, nearing her.or“It never stops, does it? I just have to go on and on until one day, I look back and there's nothing left of me but a cold, dark heart with blood on my hands, right? For at the end of the day, we are rulers. Alone in our destiny to be remembered... and kill.”
Relationships: François II de France/Mary I of Scotland | Mary Queen of Scots, Lola Fleming/Sebastian "Bash" de Poitiers, Lorenzo "II Magnifico" de' Medici/Mary Stuart, Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Clarice Orsini, Mary Stuart/Francis de Valois (Reign)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After watching 3x05, I felt my heart shatter and without any second thoughts, I started to write feverishly and then I thought, why not? If they couldn't have their Happy Ending, I can make sure that they get one for my own sake and Mary's sake... 
> 
> This is the ending, the story, I wanted for a passionate queen like Mary Stuart and the life she deserved to have as a happily wed ruler for the rest of her life as well as some "in-court" drama that would've been much more fun than infidelity and... death. This piece of writing has no real historical basis, is based on a false reality and an alternative universe and has many characters from other times to interfere with the current timeline (15 - 16th century).  
>    
> Also, I'm doing this in my free time and I don't have much free time right now and I decided to update as I write the story (unlike my other fics, but who cares?) therefore, maybe it'll take a while to update for me but I _promise_ I will update at least once a week or once every two weeks, maybe on Fridays, I guess. I know I'm late to the Reign party (five years too late as one might put) but seasons two and three were too painful for me to handle and I couldn't deal in any other way than writing a fanfic so who cares if no one reads it? 
> 
> **  
> ******_External links:_  
> [ Spotify Playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4yC5syALfTZrRn7HLlqZh7?si=07-v6PoUQK-5gyVSMZtWUQ)  
> [ Pinterest Board ](https://pin.it/2xAvDSn)  
> [ Tumblr ](https://xerxesun.tumblr.com/) If you wanted to talk to me or anything!
> 
> **Disclaimer** : For emphasis, **I have NO historical basis for this story** and this is merely a false perception of things, using only the characters and the places and nothing of the events.  
> 

———

**PROLOGUE:**

**_Mary, the six-day-old Queen._ **

———

**_14th February 1542  
_ ** **_Edinburg, Scotland_ **

“The King is dead!”

“Mary, his daughter is to be the Queen now! It hasn’t even been a week since the poor child was born!”

“Long may she live—Mary, Queen of Scots!”

An infant is crying in the cradle, under the blankets, in the silent castle.

———

**_Winter of 1548,  
_ ** **_France_ **

“The first sentences, the first words leaving one’s mouth can be the thing that can haunt them forever or make them look shiny and golden.” Marie de Guise isn’t wary of repeating those words over and over in Mary’s ears—she, on the other hand, is rather growing tired of them. “Mary, darling, you remember what to say when you meet King Henry and Queen Catherine?”

“Yes, Mother,” Mary answers, still not looking at her mother, too busy staring at the landscapes of the country she’s going to live in. _Scotland is all steep and rough_ , Mary thinks. _France seems like a much softer country, kinder_. 

She can feel her mother changing her position to make herself more comfortable. Mary doesn’t look back to see how, she only hears her soft snore filling the air around her as she looks at the snow on the ground. It looks like the angels are falling—sent to the exile of the earth for the sins humans have done. 

Maybe they are The Fallen—the heroes her mother told her about that left this earth in the invasion of Scotland. The great men protecting her, coming down as snowflakes to paint the earth after fighting for it. 

Mary likes it here.

In France.

When everything seems so magical—softer and kinder and more beautiful. Where the angels guard people. 

She stares at the view for hours and hours on end. She watches outside even when Marie wakes up and chatters in her ears about how she’s to be engaged to a prince she’s never met before or how the French Court is going to be her home for a while or that she’s not going to be able to see her mother for a very long time, about how she’s a queen with a nation depending on her so she has to be on her best behaviour during her stay in France. 

She watches the snowflakes come down through all of it and thinks of running out of the carriage into the land covered in snow and playing—maybe building a snowman as she did in her own castle back in Scotland. 

“Do you understand what I am saying, daughter?” Marie de Guise says, cupping her cheeks and looking at her deep brown eyes with a sad smile on her face.

Mary wants to ignore the question and instead tell her mother not to be sad. To tell her that it’s going to be alright, to console her. But she doesn’t. She knows better. Alternatively, she bites her lips and holds her head high as her mother has told her numerous times. “Yes, Mother.”

———

**_TWELVE YEARS LATER_ **

The deliberate movements on the carriage under her makes her heartbeat more even, the rush of adrenaline in her veins slowing down. One would think that after the assassination attempt in the convent, she’d be more anxious, her heart beating a bit faster, her eyes twitching from the nerves. But as she sits in the carriage and listens to the monotonous sound of the rocks under their feet and the singing of the birds, telling everyone that spring is in full blossom, she can’t help but feel the fear crippling away.

She’s going to the French Court—they are supposed to protect her. The English assassins can’t reach her there. She’s going to be safe there. 

So instead of worrying—for the time being—she looks out of the carriage, peeking through the curtain. She remembers almost a decade ago when she and her mother ascended down the very same road to the castle. When it was snowing and she thought about the snowflakes. Where she thought everything was going to be quite alright.

That finally, she could be done with the screams in Scotland, with the frightened man inching the Scottish Court and her uncle’s worried gazes all the time.

France was peaceful at first, welcoming even while she could run around the French Castle, exploring every inch of it with the Dauphin—Francis—and laugh loudly in their chambers, playing all sorts of games. 

She knows now that she can never be done with unsettling feelings, men roaming through the roads of her country, Scottish men pacing the halls of the Court. She can't escape it—not even in the France. She’s Mary, Queen of Scots—how can she ever be done with the chaos that has always followed the royal name everywhere. She started realizing it when there was an attempt on nine-year-old Queen's life, driving her out of the French Court as well, knowing nowhere would ever be safe, nowhere could free her of the burden of being born into the royal family. 

The years in the convent made her slightly more like a normal girl—running and laughing and breathing in the fresh air with gowns that didn’t weigh a hundred pounds, taking her down. 

Those years, though, are over for good. She knows as she catches a glimpse of the castle again. When she feels the fabrics of the clothes heaving on her chest. She knows, for sure this time, that this time, she won’t be able to be a normal girl ever again. 

Because she’s a Queen.

And a Queen is no normal girl. She’s a ruler, a nation’s last hope of survival, people’s protector and God’s servant.

So Mary looks at the view around herself again. For one last time as just a normal girl. Just another breath before being the Queen once again. Before being Mary, Queen of Scots again. 

———

“Mary!” a feminine voice exclaims as soon as Mary’s feet touch the ground and soon, she’s surrounded by four young girls cheering for their queen and friend, each enveloping her in hugs, giggling unstoppably. 

“Lola, Greer, Kenna, Aylee!” Mary says with a smile, coating her ladies with a hug before they all turn to take a look at the French Castle. They all stop for a split second with their breaths held as they take in the beautiful view in front of them. “It’s been a long while since I last saw this place,” Mary is the first one to break the silence. 

The girls look at her with a concerned look on their faces but Mary doesn’t look away from the castle in front of her. She can hear the echoes of her own laughter in the bricks of the building, her spirit craved in the halls. Kenna is the one to pull her out of the world she was slowly getting lost in but straightening her dress. “Your appearance, Mary. Haven’t you learned anything at the convent?” Greer is the one to say, running a hand through them to keep the strands of hair in order, earning an endearing smile from her queen.

Mary, though, even while she’s smiling and chattering with her ladies, is elsewhere. Somewhere from the past—twelve years ago when she was only a six-year-old in the French Court, alone and somewhat terrified and excited all the same. She remembers her tearful goodbye to her mother at the very same gate, bidding her farewells to her country—the last trays left from Scotland—for a very long time. 

She remembers the first person to comfort her after Marie de Guise took the contract of their engagement back to Scottish lands. It was the young Dauphin with shining blue eyes. She had seen him before but they had never really talked or played before that. Marie had told Mary that he was the sick prince, always in the nursery, reading books and learning things too soon for his age. Mary didn’t like him already.

She didn’t like the way the young prince always looked down when in the presence of the Lords and Dukes in the Court during the negotiations of their engagement. (Marie de Guise insisted that they be there.) She didn’t like the way his blond curls made him look pale and sick and the way Queen Catherine was always there to tell him what to do next. 

But at that time, when she was battling the tears that filled her eyes (Marie had told her not to shed any tears after her— _“The Queens don’t do that. Not in French Court, not in front of blood-thirsty nobles and Duke thirsty for your throne, or any sign of weakness,”_ were her exact words), she really appreciated the sight of the young Dauphin in front of her. 

“Your Grace,” the young boy said with a smile and for the first time, Mary noticed his eyes. They were oddly blue. She doesn’t recall how the thought of his eyes made the tears stop welling up in her eyes but it somehow did. 

“Your eyes are so blue,” Mary said before she could stop herself and the boy smiled. 

“Yours are brown, your grace,” he had said. 

“Call me Mary,” Mary said before stopping herself. Marie might’ve said that she was always going to be _Your Grace_ , _Your Majesty_ or _Your Highness_ —that it was unchangeable—but at that moment, with the Dauphin, she just felt like Mary.

“Francis,” the Prince said, grinning—showing off a toothless front that made Mary giggle—and bowed gracefully. Mary felt like she disliked him a little less then, liked him a little more. 

She wonders what the Dauphin looks like now. It has been nine years since she last saw the boy—no longer scared or quiet with eyes diverted downwards. If she thinks hard, trying to recall anything, she can see his bright blue eyes again. 

The sound of the horns is what pulls Mary out of the depth of her thoughts. “Here they come,” Lola says with excitement, leaning on Mary’s shoulders just to get a better view that makes her smile as she locks her hands in front of her.”

“Your Highness, King Henry II!” the announcer says and Mary squints. She recalls Henry’s face from childhood. He hasn’t changed much. On the other hand, Catherine has grown in height and her hair is darker than Mary remembers. 

“Is that Queen Catherine?” Mary asks just to make sure that she’s not mistaken. Nine years is a long time but she doubts even a decade can make a woman over her thirties grow a few feet taller and change the hair colour drastically. 

“No, they’re still waiting on her,” Kenna says with a crooked eyebrow. “That’s Diane de Poitiers—the King’s Mistress.” 

Lola smirks at the sight of the woman as Kenna looks around. Mary would listen to what they’re talking about—quite the mindless chatter if you ask her—but she'd be too busy trying to locate the faces she hasn’t seen in a decade. She can see Henry, of course, and his Mistress, making the boy walking to them—“Is that Francis? So dashing,” Lola says when he strides to his father with long steps—Sebastian, King’s Bastard. 

“No, that can’t be Francis,” Mary says. 

“That is Sebastian, King’s bastard son,” Kenna makes it clear for everyone, saving Mary the trouble of explaining it. She grimaces at the use of the word _bastard_ but it’s true nonetheless. 

“Focus Ladies,” Greer says with a hint of amusement highlighting her voice. “Make no mistake, look out for possible suitors—we might spend our whole lives in the French Court if things work out for Mary with the Dauphin.”

“If?” Aylee says distastefully, the word making Mary shudder.

“Yes. We are here to make sure our Queen becomes the next Queen Consort of France—that she steals the Dauphin's heart.”

“But they are to be wed, Greer,” Lola says, cocking an eyebrow. “They have been engaged since they were six!”

“The alliances can shift,” Greer says matter-of-factly and Mary feels the hands of fear grip her heart. Scotland can’t afford this shift of alliance. Scotland needs the French—and their troops—to protect herself from the invasion of the English army.

Another set of horns—distracting the party of the girls and Mary’s thoughts—announce the arrival of the Queen. “Her Majesty, Queen Catherine.” Mary takes a step forward, gravitating towards the woman she recalls vividly. Catherine de Medici—the Italian Queen of France that took care of her in her very early years at Court. 

Maybe Catherine's arrival and her show of power have distracted Mary so much that she almost misses the young Dauphin’s arrival. Her eyes go to the young man just as soon as her ladies’ do. Mary hears one of them gasp at the sight of the blond boy—almost a man, one might say—walking towards them from the lawn. 

_He isn’t lacking any teeth,_ is the first thought Mary has. The last thing she remembers about Francis was that when they said their farewells the last time, he was wary of the teeth that were falling off. _His eyes are still so blue_ , is the second thought. 

He bows in front of her as they meet at the beginning of the road with a somewhat half-hearted smile. Mary smiles, showing off her perfect teeth. (Last time Francis saw her, she was lacking some teeth as well.) “Your Grace,” Francis says in greeting as Mary nods. 

_His eyes are even bluer. As if it were possible,_ Mary thinks amusedly. “Call me Mary, please,” is the first thing Mary, Queen of Scots tells Francis, France’s Dauphin and there are almost butterflies in her stomach from the striking resemblance to the time where they first properly talked twelve years ago.

“Francis,” the young Dauphin says, pointing at the road in front of them.

 _No more talking then_ , Mary concludes. Not that she particularly knows what she was originally going to say. Francis doesn’t particularly seem happy or even entertained about her arrival as he silently walks next to her at a painfully slow pace. She already misses the convent where she could run. She could be in front of Henry and Catherine already.

“The castle seems bigger,” Mary attempts to start a conversation as Francis fiddles with his hands, looking somewhat bored.

“It’s the time you’ve spent apart from the castle, Your Grace,” Francis says and Mary doesn’t even try to correct him and tell him to call her Mary again.

Because history does have a way of repeating itself.

Mary doesn’t like him already.


	2. The Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I love the Medici family, I decided to mess with the timelines, revive Lorenzo, The Magnificent (my second historical crush after Mary) and pursue my own line of drama and new scenarios. so, since you know, let's dive right in.

**———**

**CHAPTER 1:**

_**The Arrival** _

———

**_Italy, Florence,  
_ ** **_Lorenzo de Medici_ **

“A new letter from the Pope has arrived, Messer Medici,” Bastiano says, a sealed letter in his hand as he walks towards Lorenzo. “An answer to your proposal.”

“Thank you. That would be all for now,” Lorenzo says, nodding him off, proceeding to open the letter to see what the Pope has to say. His eyes twitch at the sight of the words, written one after another. When he’s done, he knows what he has to—not that he would like it very much.

“Bastinno,” he calls out. “Call for the Privy Council. We will have to pay a visit to my cousin, Queen of France very soon.”

———

**_French Court,  
_ ** **_Francis_ **

Lazy mornings are his favourite. When he’s lying and the sun warms the room, slithering its way inside from between the curtains with a pretty blond head on his chest, moving up and down as he breathes. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” the girl says, her voice low and lethargic. 

“Good morning,” Francis says with a hoarse voice, pulling his hand from under her head, caving her in with a smile. Olivia—the girl under him, his sweetheart or his mistress as one might say—is looking at him with excitement in her eyes, eager to know what is to come next. Will the young prince kiss her or will he pull away and get ready for a meeting he’s already late for?

Francis does appreciate a challenge so he smiles, inching closer to Olivia. She shudders under his touch with excitement as Francis smirks, keeping the eye contact and leaning further in. Soon, he’s pressing fleeting kisses all over her neck, behind her ears, on her collarbone. She giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck, playing with his golden locks. “I’m going to be late,” Francis says but goes on to press his lips onto her belly skin.

———

He’s late for the meeting—of course, he is. He didn’t expect to get there on time with all the fun going on in his chambers. “Brother,” Bash is the one to greet him, leaving the room behind him. “Finally fancied showing up. What were you doing?”

“I was… riding.”

“Who?” Bash asks with a grin, earning a chuckle from his younger brother. “You’re late. Father will not appreciate it. Especially with the hard time your mother is giving him.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Francis growls. “I almost want to skip the meeting.”

“Good luck with that,” Bash smirks, patting him on the back as he walks away. “I just know I’ll have more fun than you will.”

“Lucky bastard,” Francis growls, walking into the room, swinging the doors open, walking in. The King and Catherine are in a heated conversation, Catherine more angered than she usually is. Francis wishes he could get out of it. “Father, Mother,” Francis greets, bowing to the King and Queen, waiting for the scolding to begin before moving on to the real matters at hand.

“You are late,” Henry says calmly but Catherine does give Francis a look that would kill if looks could. 

“My apologies,” Francis says, locking his hands together, waiting to see what the matter is. “What is the matter, Father?”

“King Philip of Spain is set to arrive at our Court in a few days. He’s looking to negotiate a marriage deal with a Princess in Europe—to form new alliances, to have a bride to give him heirs. We intend to have Elizabeth as his bride so you and your sister will welcome Philip to the Court with open arms,” Henry says, sitting on a chair. 

“Yes, Father,” Francis says, nodding his head. 

Catherine is huffing still so Francis assumes there’s more to the matter. He decides to wait until Henry moves on to the _real_ issue at hands. 

“Another thing,” Henry slurs the words, throwing a sharp look at Catherine. “Mary, Queen of Scots, your fiancé is coming back to the French Court, arriving at the Court after nine years. I expect a warm welcome from you, Francis. The alliance with Scotland is crucial to us now that Mary Tudor is clinging thinly to her life.”

“Henry—”

“No, Catherine. I’m not going to hear another word about how Scotland is not of any value at the moment,” Henry cuts his wife off, staring at Francis with cold eyes. “Is that clear, Francis?”

“But Father, we are in no position to be able to afford a war with English troops in Scotland. The alliance with Scotland—a marriage—is not the best way to go,” Francis argues. What else can he do? “Scottish Queen, the opinionated girl I remember her as, can and will cause us problems in this delicate time.”

“The opinions can be kept under control, the engagement _is_ to be our alliance. You’ll marry her when I say you do and this is the last I want to hear from this,” Henry says, striding past him, walking out of the closed chambers. 

“Mother,” Francis sighs but Catherine stops him by placing her hands on his cheeks.

“Let him act as the King all he wants,” Catherine says with a sympathetic look. “This court is feeding off my money. You’ll marry her when and if _I_ say you will.” Francis only nods, taking his mother’s hand into his. “I’m on your side. Always.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

———

Francis does _not_ want to marry her is the thing. Scotland is holding onto a thin line—one that Francis isn’t sure will hold. He does not think France can handle the weight of an almost fallen country on her shoulders. It’s not the right time. 

He remembers Queen Mary—the nine-year-old girl she last saw her as. She was fast, willing to climb up every tree, run down every route to the castle. She hardly kept away from the woods, rarely keeping herself from hiding in every possible corner of the castle, making Francis search for her for hours on end. He remembers her wild dark hair and her brown eyes. 

He also remembers the fact that she infrequently withheld herself from speaking her mind. Distastefully, he can hear her saying, “Francis is a girl’s name.” as well as her giggles, laughing at him. She sneaked up the meetings in Court, seeking to consume knowledge about countries and politics with laughs and snarky comments. She was bold—too bold for her own sake.

But despite all of this, Francis hates to admit that he did like her—her free spirit, her smiles, the way she made every room she went in swarming, the way she insisted on having pillow fights in his chambers until “it rained feathers”, the way she ran after him, always forcing him to look up. 

He just feels sorry that they have to reunite this way.

When he’s so reluctant and half-hearted. When he does not _want_ to be reunited with her. 

So unfortunate because, maybe, he would like her as his wife. Maybe, he would be able to marry her wholeheartedly. 

If the situation was different.

That’s why he lingers when he’s strolling down the lawn to see his finance after almost a decade. The last picture he has of her is a small girl with messy hair, tears welled up in her eyes, missing the front teeth with a white gown, sneaking away from the French Court. She had crawled to his chambers, somewhat scared and cried in his arms, both under his sheets before the ladies came to fetch her and put her on a carriage to God-knows-where. He faintly remembers that he was about to cry himself. She cried painfully, like it was the end of the world, with the potential to make everyone around her shed some tears as well.

Later, when he realized the reality of life in the French Court, he realized that some assassins, covered as maids, tried to kill the Queen in his sleep in the name of English Protestants. 

Now, almost nine years later, the Queen was standing in front of a carriage after escaping yet another assassination attempt, her hair as wild as ever, her eyes curiously searching the crowd. She notices him after a while, smiling at the sight of him that makes him sad and bitter at the same time. She looks innocent, almost the same girl, except more beautiful, looking more complicated. 

He notices that her presence still makes everything seem lighter as if there’s nothing to care about. He remembers the first time he saw her. She was next to her mother, Marie de Guise, with her head held high and her pale skin shining. She was a Queen from the very first moment with a tendency to entrance everyone, keeping the eyes on herself. He can quite recall the distasteful look she gave him the first time he was introduced as the Dauphin. 

“Your Grace,” Francis nods in greeting. Mary smiles, nodding her head. 

“Call me Mary, please,” she says and Francis can almost hear her younger voice saying the same thing.

“Francis,” he says, offering his arm which the Queen takes, walking slowly next to each other. Francis wishes they could fasten their pace, get rid of the awkwardness between them. He can feel the tension—that Mary has realized he’s been forced to be there. 

“The castle looks bigger,” she says, apparently uneasy with the tension between them. Francis, though, is not there to make conversation. He wants to make it clear that he is not interested in her hand in marriage. He pities her to some extent—a young Queen trying to save her country by finding France as an ally, stuck in an engagement with an uncertain ending. 

“It’s the time you’ve spent apart, Your Grace,” Francis says, trying to keep it polite and cold enough. He steals a glance after he attempts to shut the conversation down. He knows the secret look Mary shoots him—the same distasteful look she had twelve years ago. 

Francis must admit, it bugs him to some extent.

———

Catherine marches into his chambers two days later—walking on his very naked son and Olivia in his arms—with a nauseated expression. She never really liked Olivia, Francis is well aware. “Mother!”

“I need a moment with my son,” she says, shrugging her off as her cheeks flush. “Put your robe on, Francis. I don’t have much time.”

Francis is fast to oblige, covering himself off with his robe as quick as he can, getting ready to listen to whatever his mother has to say that is so important to make her walk in on his son. “What is the matter, Mother?”

“A messenger from Florence has arrived,” Catherine says but Francis’ confused look must be enough for her to continue explaining with a loud huff. “Lorenzo, the head of the family, for the time being, has requested an entrance to the French Court. They have been trying to negotiate with the Pope to give them the warranty to turn Florence into a Catholic Region, making him a King rather than the ruler to the Italian Republic—a threat to France in the very least.”

“Why a threat? Isn’t Lorenzo your cousin?”

“He is. And he is a Medici—young and ambitious. Willing to go to lengths to make Florence great. The capital of art and philosophy. He’ll soon decide that just Florence isn’t enough. He might’ve already planned the invasions.”

“What are we going to do?”

“With the way things are going at court—the marriage negotiations between Elizabeth and Philip and Scottish problems—there’s not much we _can_ do. But I need you to keep an eye on him for the time he spends in the French Court. Study his every move—all the meetings he has with the Nobles and Dukes and Priests. He has a way with words, Francis. You need to be careful.”

“I will be,” Francis says with a smile, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this.”

“My golden son,” Catherine mutters, placing her palm on Francis’ knuckles. They look into each other’s eyes for several moments talking quietly, saying things the words can’t say. That there’s a union in that room that nothing can break, a love shared that no matter what evil, no one can fade it away. The magic, though, is broken when Catherine pulls away. 

“Also, be more discreet about your affairs with that girl,” she says, looking genuinely disgusted. “Mary is still your finance and a crucial aspect of the Court. Don’t anger the girl—she might pull your lover’s blond hair out if she gets fed up.”

Francis would laugh if he wasn’t somewhat offended. He doesn’t answer. Just watches Catherine walk away and lies back on his bed, rubbing his temples.

———

They meet again after almost a week—a week when they both steered clear from each other, Mary saying that she needed time to recover from the long voyage, to get used to the life in court once again and Francis spent all his time in between the sheets with his lover, worrying about the arrival of Lorenzo and the marriage plans from all sides.

Catherine and Francis were awaiting the arrival of The Medici—Lorenzo, accompanied by a party of his Privy Council—when Mary sees them. “Catherine, Francis,” she greets, knitting her eyebrows together. “What a pleasant surprise to see you out of the safety of your chambers eventually, Francis.”

“My apologies, I’ve been quite busy,” Francis says with an artificial smile, making Catherine roll her eyes. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” Mary asks Catherine, ignoring Francis altogether.

“Yes, dear,” Catherine says warily. “And they might arrive any minute now so if you may, go on with your day, attend to your business and let us do ours.”

Mary frowns, opening her mouth to argue when they announce the arrival of Lorenzo de Medici. “Cousin,” he greets with open arms, as Catherine puts on a smile and kisses the man on the cheeks. “Always a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” Catherine says with a smile. “Lorenzo, let me introduce to you, my son, Francis, France’s Dauphin,”—Mary clears her throat—,“and Mary, Queen of Scots. Meet Lorenzo de Medici, my cousin and the head of the Medici bank for the time being.”

Lorenzo is younger than Francis imagined—almost the same age as him—with his mother’s confidence and the same look. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Lorenzo says to Mary, nodding his head with a smile. “I had heard the French Court has many beauties, but you, Your Grace, are the most beautiful of them all.”

“Thank you, Messer Medici. But I am sure the French Court will prove you wrong. There are quite a few wonders in every corner if you know just where to look,” Mary says with a smile. “A pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Indeed. I will remember to explore if you’ll be the guide, Your Grace.”

“We will see about that Messer Medici.”

“Lorenzo, please.”

“Mary.” 

“Shall we?” Catherine says, growing weary of the flirtatious conversation between them, pointing towards the end of the hall and Lorenzo nods, walking shoulder by shoulder with Catherine, followed by Francis and Mary. “how did you like the paths, Lorenzo?”

“Indeed a beautiful country you are ruling, Catherine,” Lorenzo says with a smile. 

“Thank you. So shall we retreat to your chambers so you can rest a bit and tell me about my lovely family? It has been quite a while since I have last heard of you.”

“We shall, Catherine,” Lorenzo says, nodding his head for Mary and Francis. “I hope to see you around, Mary. Francis.” 

They both nod, smiling as Lorenzo walks away with Catherine, followed by maids and Italian ambassadors. “He is so similar to your mother and yet so different in manners,” Mary says, turning to look Francis in the eyes.

“I suppose,” he mumbles, rubbing the palm of his hands together. 

“Francis,” Mary says with a serious tone. “I must ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you been with someone? Having girls in your chambers?”

“Where have you heard that from?”

“Is it more important _how_ I got the information or _that_ I heard the gossip?”

“Mary,” Francis deadpans. “If you are to be the next Queen of France, you must know this. In the Court, maids talk and the King does things he does _not_ need to explain to his wife. I think that it’s best if you stop listening to gossip about what I do in my chambers and pay attention to the political necessities of the Court.”

And with that, Francis bows and turns on his heels, walking away from the flushed, angry Queen with a heart heavy and a head full of thoughts he has no control over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any comments, recommendations, criticism will be appreciated x


	3. The Invasion

**———**

**CHAPTER 2:**

**The Invasion**

———

**_Underground Chambers, French Castle,_ ** **_  
_** **_Catherine_ **

“Tell me, Nostradamus, what do you see in my son’s fate with Mary? What do you see for the future of France?” Catherine says, holding onto Nostradamus. “I know you had a vision. Tell me, Nostradamus.” 

“Catherine,” he says with his hoarse voice, sending shivers down the Queen’s spine. “Nothing is clear yet. I have fleeting images, flashing lights. I can not tell you anything for certain.”

“Well, you better hurry. I do not have time to wait.”

———

**_French Court,  
_ ** **_Mary_ **

Mary looks around at the people, jabbering mindlessly—the Nobles, the Dukes, the Court guests talking their heads off. She feels wary of standing on one side, with a smile, and looking at the people. Henry is putting her off over and over again—because he’s busy negotiating a marriage deal with Spain, accepting the English and Italian ambassadors, hosting the Portugues Prince. Mary is quite tired of attending parties, social events and being a show doll for Henry and France.

“Is something bothering you, Your Grace?” says a male voice, turning Mary’s head. Lorenzo de Medici. “You look lost.”

“I was just thinking,” Mary says, turning to smile at him. If she’s being quite frank, she enjoys the company of Lorenzo, sometimes harmless flirtations when they see each other in the halls, sometimes interesting subjects or occasionally, just a nod of the head. But she enjoys it. 

“About what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mary dismisses the subject. “How do you like the Court, Lorenzo? Are you enjoying your time here?”

“The French Court has many entertainments, Mary, but the reason I am here is not to enjoy feasts and dances. Seems like the way the Court operates here is much different than how we handle things back in Florence.”

“And how do _you_ handle things in Florence?” Mary says with a raised eyebrow, a challenging look on her face. Lorenzo chuckles, lightly touching his eyebrows. 

“Well,” Lorenzo says with an amused tone. “First of all, we—” but before he can finish his sentence, a maid interrupts them. 

“Your Grace?” he says, getting Mary’s attention. “My apologies for interrupting, but there has come a letter from your mother, the Regent, from Scotland.” He says, handing the letter to Mary. She nods, accepting the letter, studying the seal. 

“Will you excuse me for a second?” Mary says to Lorenzo, earning an earnest nod from him. With that, Mary walks away to find a moment of solitude to read the words her mother has sent her. The paper feels ghastly under her fingers, anxiety wrapping its hands around her throat.

 _Mary, Dearest,  
_ _I hope you are well, my dear and that the French Court is treating you well but I’m afraid the situation in Scotland is not very good nowadays. Protestants are circling in, lighting up the Catholic cities, threatening the Catholic Lords. Even James_ — _your half brother_ — _is not capable of keeping the Protestants at bay.  
_ _I am hoping things are going smoothly with King Henry and Catherine, that you have gained the heart of the Dauphin and there will be a marriage soon. Because, Mary, we need more troops, funds, and soldiers or else, Scotland will fall into the hands of the English marching on Scottish soil. I await your response, Mary.  
_ _Marie de Guise_

When she reaches the end of the letter, Mary feels like she can not stay on her feet, her hand shaking slightly. She takes a second, leaning on a pillar, trying to take a hold of herself. Because the truth is, there has been no talk of a real marriage, no sign of a real alliance. Every time Mary tries to talk to Henry, convincing him that Scotland needs aid, soldiers, troops, he cuts her off, saying that he’s deeply sorry for the chaos but there’s nothing he can do at the time. 

“Mary?” says a man, disrupting her train of thoughts. This time, it’s Francis de Volios—the Dauphin that does not want to marry her, the man who is hanging her and her country out to dry. She feels her eyes welling up with angry, unshed tears. “Mary, what is wrong?” he asks, his voice filled with worry. Mary would believe it—take comfort in his worry—if she thought it was genuine. But the past few weeks has made it more than clear for her that Francis does not—will not allow himself to—care for her or her country.

Mary pulls herself up, balling her hand into a fist, her face flushed, rubbing her face furiously before turning to face Francis. “You know what is wrong, _Dauphin_ . This alliance,” she hisses, shoving the letter into Francis’ hands for him to scan before pulling it away. “Scotland is under English _and_ Scottish attack and I do not have any more time to waste so I will ask you this once and for all. Do you _ever_ plan on marrying me? To honour your word to Scotland?”

“Mary, it’s not that simple.”

“What is not simple? France gave us her word—your _King_ gave us his word. His protection. Now, they’re both as good as nothing. We’ve been engaged since we were six! It’s all been settled! So please, Francis, tell me what is _not_ simple? ”

“You only have English and Scottish rebels to worry about, France has Spain, German, Italian, English and local Protestants to worry about. An alliance with Scotland, sending our troops away for Scotland, can and most probably _will_ destroy France.”

“If France doesn’t help Scotland now, Scotland _will_ be destroyed!” Mary almost shouts. “Scotland, the country that has been a wall against English attacks for you, leaving you protected from the English strike. Scotland, the country you gave your word to!” 

Francis presses his index finger on her lips lightly, muttering a soft shush, looking around alarmed to make sure no one is around before caving on Mary.

Francis sighs, his hands grasping her shoulder. “You’re shaking.” Mary struggles to push him away, her hands visibly shaking. “Stay put, Mary. You might be angry at me and my nation but in this Court, everyone is looking for a moment of weakness to press on. Don’t push me away, let me help you.” 

Mary, though, can not stay put. Not when the soldiers are inching her country, waiting to pull it down, to push her off her throne, to crush Scotland. Not when France and its royals are standing aside to watch her country burn. “You want to _help_ me? Then give me soldiers, troops, funds to help Scotland _fight_ the invasion!”

“Mary, I—”

“I thought so,” she says dryly.

“Mary, I need you to understand. I have a duty to France. I can not get out of it. I can not do what you ask of me.”

“I understand,” Mary says, her voice hoarse with anger and the pressure of unshed tears that made her blood boil. “But I need _you_ to understand that I am a _Queen_. Queen of Scots and my duty is to Scotland as Scotland and I are the same and I will do whatever I can to save my country.”

Before Francis can say anything, a maid approaches Mary, “Your Majesty, I am sorry to interrupt but,” she leans in to whisper in her ear, having orders not to let the Dauphin yet know the details of her message, “Your uncle is in your chambers, demanding to see you at once.” 

Mary only nods, sending the girl away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I would want to retire to my chambers,” she says to Francis with her eyes filled with fury.

Francis only nods before Mary storms off, retiring to the solace of her chambers because France might be a beautiful, magical place guarded by angels as her six-year-old self though, but the French Court—despite the views and handsome Princes—is a cruel place. And certainly not a guardian angel for Scotland. 

———

“You look well, Mary,” Clause de guise says with a bow as soon as Mary enters her chambers.

“Uncle,” Mary greets the man, newly entered to the Court with a smile, her hands caressing his arms with a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mother sent _me_ with the letter, didn’t the maids tell you?” Mary shakes her head, sitting next to him on a cushion, waiting for him to go on. “The English—as I am sure you read in the letter—are massing on the borders, looking for anything and everything to destroy.”

“We must show strength.”

“Yes, but the Scottish soldiers are not enough. Needless to mention that the local wars between Catholics and Protestants are more heated than ever. We have asked King Henry and he’s been slow to answer, surely you have some sort of answer to offer us as you _are_ the Queen of Scotland. You were sent here to strengthen the alliance by marrying Henry’s son, now they’re dragging their feet. What happened?”

“Nothing happened! They’re being politicians, Francis and his father aren’t eager to commit to Scotland. They rather keep me in a drawer like a pair of gloves for cold weather and when the weather grows cold for France, they’ll take me out and I’ll be wed.”

“They’re afraid of what a permanent bond might mean,” Claude nods in acknowledgement. “But right now, we have immediate problems. Scotland needs more troops and as Queen, you must do something.”

“I will talk to King Henry first thing in the morning,” Mary says, standing up. “Until I get an answer, stay in Court. I will send maids to show you to your chambers.”

———

Marching the halls as anger boils in her blood is not an easy thing to. Especially not when she worries she already knows the answer to her demand, nonetheless, she does walk the halls with hope in her heart. Opening the curtains furiously, she is faced with France’s most dominant leaders, Nobles and King and the Dauphin around the table. “Mary,” Henry greets, nodding the commanders off. Francis looks at her quite uncomfortably, visibly shaken from the conversation they had last night. “We were just discussing the matters in Scotland. You have my sympathy.”

“Father, I think Her Majesty is here for more than just sympathy,” Francis says, a sad look on his face. Mary feels angry at him, who will not honour their deal, at Henry, who is using her as a chess piece, at English, who see Scotland as an easy target and at France, who has been nothing but unfaithful to Scotland. 

“Of course, we’ll send gunpowder, supplies for your army.”

“And what use are they without men? Surely you can spare a few men. You have so many more soldiers than we do.”

“We have more borders as well.”

“You are supposed to be our ally! If our positions were reversed, Scotland _would_ help.”

“Mary,” Henry sighs as if he’s fed up playing with a child. Mary is fed up with being treated like one. “I’m so sorry.”

“Eight companies,” she demands, meeting the stone-cold face of France’s King. “Six!” 

“Mary,” Henry says, walking towards her, taking her hand. “I hope to see you at the entertainment tonight, yes?” He lightly kisses Mary’s hand. She’s too flushed to pull her hand away.

“I hope you understand the position you are putting us in,” Mary deadpans. “Lives will be lost.”

Henry only clears his throat before Mary storms out of his chambers, seeking some fresh air to allow her to breathe again. She walks to the garden so fast that she almost misses Lorenzo de Medici calling her. “Your Majesty? Queen Mary? Mary!”

She stops on her tracks, taking a deep breath before turning to face him. “Lorenzo,” she says with a forced smile. “I am sorry, I am in a bit of a hurry therefore if you excuse me…” she says, turning to walk away but this time, another voice calls her, making her stop again.

“Mary,” Francis calls after her, running to even his steps with her, standing in front of her. “Lorenzo,” he nods. “Would you mind giving us a moment? I need to speak with the Queen in private.”

“Actually,” Mary cuts Francis off before Lorenzo can walk away. “I do not think we have anything to talk about in private, Francis. Now if you’ll excuse me and Lorenzo.”

Francis flinches, looking at Mary with death in his blue eyes—his sky blue, very blue eyes. It pains Mary to hate such beautiful eyes but she does for those eyes belong to a man who intends on hanging her out to dry. “Mary.”

“I will see you later, Dauphin,” Mary dismisses, waiting for Lorenzo to even his steps with her as they walk out to the lawn. “I am sorry that you got caught in the middle of that,” Mary says to Lorenzo when they’re out of Francis’ earshot. “Now, what can I do for you, Messer Medici?”

“Forgive me for intruding, but I could not help but hear the word about how Scotland is under fire and as it turns out, France is refusing to operate fully.”

“Me and King Henry have an understanding,” Mary says, careful with Lorenzo and what he might think. He _is_ a Medici after all, Catherine’s blood. “There’s no need for you to worry.” 

“Mary,” Lorenzo says, stopping in front of her, looking into her eyes. Maybe blue eyes are a thing for the Medici family as Lorenzo’s eyes are as blue as the ocean. “I understand why you don’t want the word to get out that there’s a possible wedge drawn between Scotland and France but I must tell you, the word is already out and me, knowing is a sign of that.”

“What are you saying, Messer Medici?” Mary says, cocking an eyebrow. 

“I am saying that maybe France is dragging her feet, refusing to help you but Florence, the Medici family under my control, might be willing to help you to save your country,” Lorenzo says in a low voice, checking around to make sure there’s no one in there. 

“And what do you want in return?” Mary asks with a fierce face.

“Your Grace, I do not think it’s the wisest idea to speak of this in an open garden, is it? How about we meet in my chambers after the feast tonight?” Lorenzo says with a matter-of-fact tone, glancing around. Mary knows what is worrying him—Catherine’s spies—therefore she nods.

“Of course,” she says. “But now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Surely,” Lorenzo says, bowing slightly. “I will not take any more of your time, Mary.” Mary only nods, watching Lorenzo walk away. 

———

**_French Court,  
_ ** **_Catherine_ **

“Your Majesty?” the girl—Hailee—calls out to Catherine, turning her attention from the book in front of her to her lady. “I have news.”

“What news?” Catherine says, putting the metal in her hand delicately on the table. “Were you able to find anything out about Lorenzo’s plan?”

“I spent the night with Cosimo Barteneli as you asked and he said something about Lorenzo’s plans,” she starts but Catherine does not have the patience that it takes. 

“Are you waiting for me to throw you a feast or will you finally get to the part where you tell me what my cousin is after?” Catherine says impatiently, her hands wrapping themselves around the knife on the table, used for cutting the fruit. 

“They say Lorenzo is seeking the Pope’s support but not because he wants to be a King. He wants to officially announce Florence an independent Republic, to officially ask people for their vote and in time, add Venice, Pisa, Milan and all the Italian cities to it to form a republican Italy.”

Catherine feels the blood go cold in her veins.

“And why is he here?”

“The word has it, they are looking for a marriage alliance. With someone close to the Pope and the support of a monarchy—a Catholic monarchy—to show the Pope that this is not a threat to the rest of Europe.”

“Mary…” Catherine sighs. “Fetch Nostradamus,” she orders the maids in front of the door. “We need to settle this once and for all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any sort of comment, inspiration, etc. will be appreciated because i'm always in need of validation from the others or any sort of criticism to help me make everything better since it's my first historical AU ever in my eighteen years of life.


	4. The Suggestion

**———**

**CHAPTER 3:**

**The Suggestion**

———

**_French Court,  
_ ** **_Mary_ **

“Your Majesty, Dauphin of France, has requested to meet you,” a maid informs Mary, making her turn to face the door, rushing to hide the papers so Francis wouldn’t see what she’s been up to. She locks her hands in front of her, standing up, nodding for the maid to let Francis in.

“Francis,” she says as soon as he enters her chambers. “How can I help you?”

“What are you planning on doing?” Francis asks heatedly, rushing to catch her arm, his blue eyes a perfect storm. 

“I don’t quite understand,” Mary says, setting her arm free, looking at Francis with even more flame in her eyes. 

“Lorenzo, my _cousin_. What did he offer you?” Francis says, looking like he’s on the verge of losing his mind. “Mary, for the love of God, do not look at me in silence like that. Tell me what he offered you.”

“He offered me what you and your country didn’t!” Mary erupts like a volcano. “He told me he could help me—save Scotland from the English. He offered me protection! Something you and your father could not and _would_ not give me!”

“What did he want in return?” Francis says, balling his hands in a fist next to him. Mary keeps quiet, sucking in a breath. “Mary, please, tell me what he wanted in return.”

“He told me we’ll talk about it tonight. In his chambers,” Mary says quietly, pressing her eyelids together. “During the feast.”

“Are you going to take him up on his offer?” Francis asks, the calmest he’s been in the last few minutes. 

“Do I have any other choice?” 

“You don’t even know what he wants from you and your country!”

“I know that Scotland needs funds, soldiers and protection against English troops. If Lorenzo de Medici is willing to give me those things, I am willing to go to any lengths. Maybe he would want something later or now. Whatever it is, I can do it if it will save Scotland today when she needs rescuing the most!” Mary argues, keeping eye contact with Francis.

“He wants the support of you in the Vatican. For you to support Florence to become an official voting Republic. He needs a Catholic Queen, the Pope’s favourite to support him and his plan so the Sadrini wouldn’t be able to shut him down, so he will have an ally to allude that he is no threat,” Francis says, walking away, rubbing his temples. “But he _is_ a threat to all monarchies to have a Republic in Europe. A threat to France. To Scotland!”

Mary is taken aback for a second, absorbing in the information but she’s quick to recover. “If I don’t get help now, there _won’t_ be a Scotland to _be_ threatened.”

“You’re willing to go to what lengths? You can risk our alliance with this decision, you can risk everything at the French Court, our engagement.”

“I am willing to take that risk for my country,” Mary says. “After all, you are the ones responsible for this. I asked you to honour our alliance. Six companies! That was all I asked from my _ally_ but your father made it more than clear that our alliance isn’t worth that much!” 

Francis stays in his place, looking at Mary with a pained look. “It can be a threat to France. You have to understand that. He’s a Medici, my _mother’s_ cousin. If he does this, it might start a downfall for France with a Medici Queen, relying on the Nobles, sometimes eating off from the normal people. It could put France in a very hard position, Mary…”

“Francis, you told me you have a duty to France—and that is why you are here—but I have a duty to Scotland and Scotland only. I would have a duty to France _if_ you had decided to honour your deal but now... If saving Scotland means putting _your_ country—the country that has betrayed me, played me and disrespected me—in danger, then be it.”

“Mary—”

“As far as I am concerned, there’s nothing more to talk about,” Mary interrupts him, sitting behind her chair, her back to Francis. “I will see you at the feast tonight.”

———

Sitting on the corner of the woods was always what gave her peace. To look at the small lake forming there in the spring, to listen to the water and allow the silence of nature to soothe her. When she was nine and the Court became too much, when not even her childhood friend couldn’t entertain her, when she missed Scotland and her mother too much, she came there, putting her bare feet in the water, closing her eyes. 

So now, when she sees no way out, when the walls are closing in on her and she needs a moment to breathe. “Oh, Lord,” she sighs as soon as her skin hits the water. A wave of relief washes over her, the coldness of the water making her fire go down. 

Francis was right—a Republic nation could be a threat to France, to Scotland even. It could anger the people, the farmers, the peasants, the people working hard. But it is a bigger threat to France than Scotland and the real threat right now, is _not_ a Republic nation, it’s a raging war. And she is the Queen of Scots—the saviour of _her_ country, a place where needs her.

She wishes she could do things differently—to marry Francis, to have his respect if not his love, to have a good life, to be France’s protector as well as Scotland’s, to have an ally. But she can’t. Not when France deals in bad faith.

“Your Majesty, have you been having a bad day?” a voice disrupts her, making her flaunt her eyes open and lookup. Sebastian. Henry’s Bastard. She hasn’t seen him in weeks, since she came back to the French Court. 

“Sebastian,” Mary acknowledges pulling her feet out of the water, hugging her knees. She looks at him. He looks tired, his clothes washed up with mud and dirt off the road. “I have not seen you in the castle for a long time.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sebastian says, sitting next to her. “I was away on a mission. Bastards do that a lot on King and Dauphin’s behalf.” 

“Sometimes, I wish I was a bastard,” Mary says before she can stop herself. “No,” she blushes as soon as she realizes what has been said. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s quite alright, Your Grace,” Bash says with a smile. “Are you feeling down, Your Majesty?”

“Call me Mary, please,” Mary sighs. “And to answer your question, I am.”

“What is wrong?”

“Why don’t you ask your brother?” Mary hisses, looking at his green eyes with anger. She is not quite sure why she’s saying these things to Bash when even her ladies aren’t all aware of what’s going on in her head. “It wasn’t meant to be that bitter…”

“Mary,” Bash says, looking at her in the eye. “My brother can be a lot of things, but he’s not heartless. Talk to him. Tell him what you think, what you want. He will understand.”

“I dare not,” Mary says. “The French Court has had a short temper when it comes to me. Why would the Dauphin be an exception?”

“Francis is not like the rest of the French Court,” Bash says with a sigh standing up. “Ask a Bastard who has spent most of his life in the French Court.” 

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Mary to sit next to the small lake, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. About Francis, Lorenzo, Scotland, Bash, Catherine, Henry and France but above all, about herself. About what she’s to do. 

———

**_King’s Chambers,_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Francis_ **

“Father, you need to understand. If we don’t help Scotland now, it will backfire on France. Queen Mary is looking for other alliances, alliances that can be threats to France!”

“Let her look. No one will help her if France, their longest-lasting ally, isn’t sending troops,” Henry says as the servants prepare the King’s clothes for the event that night. 

“But there _is_ someone that will help,” Francis pushes. “The Italian. The Medici. Lorenzo is in our Court, waiting for us to turn out backs on Scotland to use it to get to what he wants. Whatever that might be.”

“Do you know what he’s up to?” Henry asks Francis with a dangerous glow in his eyes. Francis hesitates, pressing his jaw, balling his fist. If he tells Henry what the Medici are up to, not only Lorenzo and his party would be in danger but also Catherine and Scotland’s future—whatever little hope Mary had of saving her. Henry would shut everything down to keep Mary under his control.

“I don’t,” Francis says with a sigh. “I am just saying protecting Scotland _is_ protecting France. If Scotland falls, English has no obstacle walking all over the French soil.”

“Scotland will not fall. Not today. Now, go get ready for the feast and leave the worrying to Mary. After all, _she_ is the Queen of Scots.”

Francis, then, knows that he needs to find a way. To keep the alliance, to keep Scotland… to keep Mary. 

———

Francis knows that Sebastian is back from roaming the roads of France to rest in the Court for a while. It’s only what a good brother would do—welcoming his brother before asking him for a favour. “Sebastian,” he says with a grin when he sees his brother in the hall, talking to a group of soldiers. “Long time no see, brother.”

“It’s only been three weeks, Francis,” Bash says, walking towards Francis, enveloping him in a hug. “How have you been? How has living with your fiance treated you good, brother?” Francis resists the urge to roll his eyes but Bash must notice his expression because he laughs, wrapping his arms around Francis’ shoulder, both walking towards his chambers. “That bad? She told me it wasn’t going smoothly but you look like you are exhausted.”

“I am,” Francis says, patting Bash on the chest. “I wish I could get away from the Court for a while.”

“I promise you, you do not want that,” Sebastian says with tired eyes. “The condition in France isn’t as good as we thought it was.” 

“Good Lord,” Francis growls, almost leaning on Sebastian. “Then it will make it even harder for me to ask you this.”

“What?” 

“Let’s talk inside,” Francis says, pointing to the entrance to Sebastian’s room. “I need you to help me execute a plan I have. To help France.”

———

**_French Court,  
_ ** **_Mary_ **

The lawn is beautiful—lights everywhere, showing off the beauty of the French Court and the power and money King Henry has. A shame he refuses to give a part of that to his supposed _ally_ Scotland. The thought of her later meeting with Lorenzo makes her insides churn with nerves. The thought of what she’s about to do. 

“This is beautiful,” Lola says from beside her, looking at the boats on lakes, filled with Nobles who look to see the beauty of a late-night ride on the boat. 

“Go ahead then,” Mary says with a smile to her ladies, pointing at the boat. “Be my guest and enjoy the ride.”

“Will you not join us?” Kenna asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“I will,” Mary says. “After I have a word with Francis.” The girls giggle, the whispers of how she wants to spend the time on the boat with her fiance fill her ears before all of her ladies disappear to sit on one of the boats. From the corner of her eyes, she can see them sitting, laughing loudly. She smiles shortly. Little do they know how things are going at the Court. Better enjoy France’s treats before they are forced to leave the court. 

“Happy girls, aren’t they?” Catherine’s voice interrupts Mary’s thoughts, making her turn to look at the older Queen with a cold face. “You used to be one of those, you know? When you were a child under my protection—years ago.” 

Mary turns to face her, keeping her hand in front of her stomach, giving Catherine a cold look. “That girl grew up, realized that she’s a Queen.”

“Of course,” Catherine says with a dry tune and a blank expression. “Also, please allow me to give you my condolences for the situation in Scotland. I hope you will get out of it somehow. I am sure your mother, Marie de Guise, will figure a way out.” 

“Not without my help,” Mary says. “Not without France’s help.”

“You know Henry can’t and will not help you in this situation,” Catherine hisses slowly, making sure no one is eavesdropping on their conversation. 

“Then I have no other option but make new alliances, seek help elsewhere.”

“You can not trust Lorenzo de Medici. I know him, he’s _my_ cousin and he will not do something that wouldn’t benefit himself and himself only. By agreeing to his terms you will sign the downfall of all monarchies in Europe and after you do, what is to keep him from turning on you, taking Scotland as his first target?” Catherine says. “He’s a smart, ambitious man, a Medici. You can not trust him. Not on this—not on something that puts us all in danger.”

“My mother once trusted a Medici to raise her child, _you_ and I think I turned out quite well, learning the tricks of the Court thanks to you,” Mary says with a smile. “So why don’t you allow me to take my chances with another Medici to save my _country_ because I _will_. So by all means, Catherine, let me worry about Scotland and you worry about France.” With that, Mary nods her head, walking away from Catherine de Medici, leaving her flushed and angry behind.

It’s not a surprise that she bumps into someone with the speed she has, trying to get away from Catherine. “I’m sorry, I—” Mary starts but by seeing Francis in front of her with a smile, holding onto her forearms to help her gain her composure, she interrupts herself, straightening her gown. “Francis.”

“You’re in quite a haste, Your Grace,” Francis says, letting go of her arm and circling his hands behind himself. 

“I am rather wary of the feast, I was planning on retreating to my chambers,” she says. 

_Talk to him, Mary._

But what can she tell him? What can she ask of him when there might not be an alliance—an engagement—to get back to. 

“Mary…” Francis starts but Mary puts on a hasty smile, stopping Francis before he can even start.

“I am sorry, Francis,” she says, “but I have to go.” And like that, she’s gone.

———

When she retires to the castle, saying that she’s had enough of celebrating, she heads for Lorenzo’s chambers instead of hers, hoping to hear the words from Lorenzo rather than anyone else. “Queen Mary,” Lorenzo greets her when she sneaks in, closing the door behind her. “I thought you wouldn’t show up.”

“I don’t think you did, Lorenzo,” Mary says without a smile, putting on a fierce expression. “So let us skip the pleasantries and get to the core of this deal.”

“Of course,” Lorenzo says, pouring a glass of wine. “Wine?” Mary shakes her head. “Conscious, a necessary trade in a royal, Your Majesty. Another trade a ruler has the urge to protect their land, their _people_ above all else. Surely, you understand it as well as I do since you agreed to meet me to save Scotland, the _people_ and the country that needs you. So I assume you will understand that by this _proposal_ , I am looking to save Florence. My people. To give them a better life, prosperity.”

“You know that I have heard your plan,” Mary concludes. “That’s why you aren’t saying it. Because you do not seek to say it out loud until you have done it.”

“My cousin is a Medici and I know how my blood deals. I am certain her girls, entertaining my men, have told her the news and she has told them to you to try to scare you off by the threat of a Republic nation,” Lorenzo says, sipping from his wine. “But neither I nor Florence will ever be a threat to Scotland. I will make sure of it. A treaty between our nations to put Scotland under our protection, an ally to our bank.”

“And what do _you_ exactly want me to do?” Mary asks, waiting for Lorenzo to talk. He sighs, taking a walk around the room. 

“The Pope is the one with the power to permit us to be an official Republic in Europe, to legitimize us. I hear Mery Tudor is dying in England and the successors of England are limited to you, a Catholic Queen and Elizabeth, a Protestant Bastard. I can see who the Pope will need to keep England a Catholic country. He will want you to claim England, therefore you are very high on His Holiness’ list, making you the best ally to have during my discussions with the Pope about the future of Florence.”

“Catherine is a Catholic Queen and she is your blood. Why don’t you ask her to support you with the Pope?”

“I don’t think either Catherine or the Pope would have any interest in helping each other out. Catherine is the wife of Henry, a King with a reputation for bedding every beautiful girl and woman he sees, with a bastard son and Catherine… She thinks my father had done her wrong when she married Henry. Also, I did mention that your claim to England makes you the Pope’s favourite in this crucial time.”

A shiver runs down Mary’s spine. Even the thought of claiming England in the middle of all the tension between “What will you give Scotland then?”

“I can not give you Florence’s army—the distance will tire the troops out and during these crucial moments, I can not leave Florence unprotected but I can give you a loan from the Medici Bank with no interest rate and no due date of payment, helping you hire a private army, buy gunpowder and supplies needed for your men, food for the poor, the damaged. When Florence becomes a Republic we can start trades, loads of health and prosperity exchanged between the two nations.”

Mary stops for a moment to think about it, to make sense of it. “I need to think about your offer, Messer Medici.”

“I understand,” Lorenzo says with a nod. “I have plenty of time, Mary. I just worry Scotland might run out of time,” is the last thing Lorenzo says before Mary turns on her heels and walks away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! even though i have written like 20k words of the story thus far, I'm not going to publish the next part until Friday so i can have some times to write some extra chapters to make sure i am ahead of schedule. just tuned it to say it. feel free to leave kudos if you like the fic, leave any criticism in the comment's section and recommend it to your reign fan friends if you think they might like it. thank you x


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